The Parking Lot – April 2014

by Debra Kiva

I remember that Tuesday

in April.

I watched as the agitation of

the unfamiliar

place

began to swallow you.

You fidgeted, eyes darted about

saying over and over

"I want to go home."

The four of us sitting on slate blue

metal chairs, awaiting

lunch at the outdoor cafe

by the sea

on the other side

of the world.

I took you from the table.

It was only day two of our visit.

You didn't know who I was but

you were sweet.

It was as if the harshness that

possessed you for

all those years

had disappeared

and you enjoyed the

tenderness of my

attention.

I said, I'd take you back to the car.

As we walked I told you that

“Sometimes, I want to

go home too.”

You asked if I knew your kids. 

I said, yes because I am one

of them.

You questioned, do you know the other

two?

I answered, I did, I knew them well, my whole life

because I am your

youngest.

You said, there is one I have not

seen in a long time. And your face

showed immeasurable sorrow.

I said I miss him too.

And that's when

you fell

into my arms

that afternoon

in the hot Australian sun.

It had been over a year

since he passed -

your beautiful son from

a disease similar to the

one that will soon

claim you.

That day, I held your

tiny, frail body up

and for the first time

since his death

you cried.

* * * * *

Debra Kiva has been writing poetry as means to process challenging situations for over 25 years. She is co-director of Gold Country Threshold Choir which provides comfort and compassion through song to those on the threshold of life. She currently lives in the Sierra Foothills with her husband and black lab.